


For Want of Definition

by Yuliares



Series: London Fog [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Friendship/Love, Love Confessions, M/M, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Relationship Discussions, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:42:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29411400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuliares/pseuds/Yuliares
Summary: Holmes and Watson discuss the ancient Greeks, and definitions of love.“I don’t love you,” Holmes called out abruptly, apropos of nothing, reclining on the couch. His eyes met mine in the mirror over the fireplace, fierce and unblinking.“Don’t be difficult,” I chided him, lightly, and turned my eyes back to the newspaper. With the elections in parliament upcoming, the editorial columns were full of rumors and speculation. Thank God we didn't much deal with politicians. “Of course you love me.”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: London Fog [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2175615
Comments: 7
Kudos: 57





	For Want of Definition

It was a quiet morning, the lethargic lull between cases still fresh and pleasant. The window was open, and for once London was enjoying sunshine and a warm springtime breeze, fragrant with blossoming trees. I had just finished a leisurely breakfast, only one or two sips of tea remaining in my cup, and was feeling quite content indeed.

“I don’t love you,” Holmes called out abruptly, apropos of nothing, reclining on the couch. His eyes met mine in the mirror over the fireplace, fierce and unblinking.

“Don’t be difficult,” I chided him, lightly, and turned my eyes back to the newspaper. With the elections in parliament upcoming, the editorial columns were full of rumors and speculation. Thank God we didn't much deal with politicians. “Of course you love me.”

“Ha!” he exclaimed, and remained on the couch.

“Mrs. Hudson will be upset if you won’t even try her eggs,” I warned. “Unless you want a repeat of last week’s spring cleaning.”

An incised Mrs. Hudson was nothing to scoff at, and several of Holmes’ experiments had recently been consigned to the bin as casualties of her ire.

“Listen here,” I added, still skimming the paper. “It says that there’s been an incident over at Lancaster station -”

“Oh, don’t bother trying to lure me over,” groused Holmes, finally throwing his legs over the sides of the couch. I made an effort not to laugh as he wrapped his dressing robe around him dramatically, much like a king in fine robes, before taking a seat across from me at the table. My plate had been cleared in good appetite and set aside, while his sat untouched. He tipped open the server with a sneer, but to my relief, snagged a sausage to put upon his plate, alongside his rapidly cooling eggs and toast.

And then, ever stubborn, he persisted in the topic he had initially broached. 

“Perhaps there is love,” he allowed, pouring out a cup of tea. Protected by the cozy, at least one part of his much-delayed breakfast would be warm. “The Greeks had many kinds, you know.”

“Yes, I recall vaguely,” I replied, folding and setting the paper aside. “Love of family, and love of the self, come to mind.”

Holmes got into moods like this, sometimes. Stuck on some point, some philosophical application to real life. Polite company might consider it gouche, but I welcomed it. Better this, than one of his depressive episodes.

“ _Storge_ ,” he said, enunciating the words delicately. “ _Philautia_ . And between us,” he waved a hand, then reached for the sugar. “ _Philia_. Brotherly love.”

I thought of Mycroft, a brother to Holmes in every literal sense of the word. “We are more than brothers, I think.”

Holmes, stirring his tea, paused. “Perhaps,” he said, after a long moment. He set the spoon aside. “But there is no passion, Watson. _Eros_ , the romantic love.”

It is not often that Holmes will not meet my eye. This was one of those rare moments.

“You know I do not agree with society’s judgement of the invert,” Holmes continued, his voice subdued. “But I do not consider myself among them. I do not desire - anyone.”

“Well, I like to think you enjoy my company,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

“You know what I mean!” snapped Holmes. He stabbed the sausage on his plate, held it up before him like some gruesome specimen. “Or perhaps you don’t.”

“Holmes,” I said, unsure of what to say. Or whether such things ought to be said at all. “Does it matter?”

“If one cannot name a thing, then how can one understand it,” Holmes said bitterly.

I paused. Holmes often mocked my more heartfelt words. Called them sentimental, and sensationalist. He has been, quite frankly, rather hurtful. But I’ve always suspected he craves them as well. In this moment, I weighed my potential embarrassment against his own feelings.

In the end, it was the breakfast that decided me. Holmes looked about to leave the table, and if he left now, he wouldn’t eat another bite. He’d hardly even drunk his tea, and the sausage was still impaled on his fork.

“Holmes,” I declared. “I feel qualified to say this, having once been married, and having been your friend for many years. I am happy for my own bed, but in every other way, what I feel for you is what I felt for Mary. I love you in all the ways that matter, and very likely a number that don’t. Those are the facts, and sod the rest of it.”

And there, both my courage and my words ran out. My throat felt quite dry. At a loss, I looked down at the table, only to glance up again as Holmes suddenly laughed.

It was a deep laugh - the kind that made him throw his head back, and his eyes crinkle up, deepening the lines on his face. It made me feel alight, as if I were filled with clouds, the weight of the world lifted for, at the very least, a brief moment.

“Well said, my dear boy,” he said, when his fit of humor had finally passed - though he was still smiling. With a flourish, he passed his cup of tea to me, and I took it, grateful for something to wet my throat.

I took a sip, letting the familiar comforts of a good cuppa ground me. This cup, in particular, was quite perfect - fragrant, with one lump of sugar, and a dash of milk. 

“Why, this is just how I like it,” I said in surprise.

Holmes grinned again, and snagged the edge of the paper, tugging it his way to flip open while he took a bite of sausage. “Oh look,” he said, still chewing. “They’re doing Les Huguenots at Covent Gardens. Have you plans already?”

“Not at all,” I said.

“Excellent!” he declared. “We can do dinner at Marcini’s.”

“Sounds wonderful,” I said, and I meant more than just an evening out with the most infuriating, brilliant man I’d even known.

Half hidden behind the paper from the bright sunshine of spring, Holmes’ smile deepened.

"Excellent," he said. "Most excellent."


End file.
